


between a shot and a cocktail

by SidewaysClarinet



Category: Rocketman (2019)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bernie decides to get sober!, Brief reference of suicide, I'm a sucker for that quiet "stay?" moment when one of the characters goes to leave, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Not entirely linearly compliant??? It just goes Somewhere After Bernie Leaves The Tour, Other, POV Second Person, Post-Break Up, Takes place somewhere after Elton's attempted drowning, reader is gender neutral!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:20:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27254842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SidewaysClarinet/pseuds/SidewaysClarinet
Summary: It's not a sight you've ever liked to see, but all the same, it's one that you've come to associate as intimately with Bernie as his old leather jacket. He’s drunk, again, but maybe you can get something for him out of this.
Relationships: Bernie Taupin/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 2





	between a shot and a cocktail

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first work outside of Blue Exorcist in a while (as well as my first ever x reader fic), but I've fallen so head over heels for Bernie that I just had to write something for him. This one is angsty, but I do have a happier one in the works too! I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> This takes place a few months after reader and Bernie have broken up!
> 
> chapter warnings: alcoholism, brief mention of a suicide attempt

He’s drunk out of his mind.

Bernie’s sitting by himself, some sort of drink in hand--you’re not sure if he even knows what he’s drinking, but he’s holding it close to his chest, and his eyes are half lidded, cheeks rosy as he looks down at the table. There’s a sort of redness to his eyes that you can see even in the dim light of the bar, and it has your lips pursing.

You two had broken up months ago. It was a mutual split, but a messy one of arguments and yelling and slammed doors that echo in your ears when you look at him. The wounds are scabbed over and dulled now, but still sharp enough that you’re nearly tempted to leave him where he is. 

If he wants to nurse his latest hurt over a glass of alcohol, then that’s fine. It wasn’t like he’d ever been receptive to your attempts to help with that, and you doubt much has changed over only a few months. He’s kind but stubborn as a mule when he wants to be, and you really don’t have it in you to duke it out with him once more over his coping mechanism of choice.

But… he’s not a crier. He never has been, and yet, it’s clear that something’s pushed him to that point. He doesn’t notice you staring, which is certainly good, because you’re doing an awful lot of it.

“You’re not seriously thinking about it, are you?” 

It comes from somewhere just behind you, and you reluctantly tear your eyes away to look at your friend. Leilah is giving you a stern look, and yet her eyes are pleading, because she knows that you’ve already made up your mind. It sits between the two of you like a grey, ugly thing, and you sigh as you reach a hand up to rub at your eyes.

“...I can’t just leave him,” you say, quietly. Resigned. 

“Yes, you can,” she counters, her frown growing deeper. “He’s a grown man, he can take care of himself. You can’t keep picking up after him like this.”

“I’m not picking up after him,” you try to deny, but it’s a weak argument on your part. You don’t agree with her phrasing, but you know the sentiment is true. “He doesn’t look right, I shouldn’t just leave him there.”

Leilah shakes her head, setting her drink down on the bar table to take your shoulders in hand. “You can, and you will. If you want to reach out to him, then fine, but don’t- don’t let it be like this, okay? He’s drunk, and you don’t want to start off like that. You know it won’t end well.”

“So I’m just supposed to leave him there?” You can’t help but glance back at him, and the conflicting emotions in your chest only grow harder to ignore. “He’s--God, he’s got to be black out at this point, and there’s no one with him. I at least have to see if he has a driver.”

She releases you only to take a long drink of her cocktail, and you’d feel guiltier about it if you weren’t already itching to go. When Leilah looks back at you, it’s only after she’s downed half her drink, and she sighs long and hard. “He’s not coming back in my car. Call him a taxi, or something, but he’s not coming home with us.”

“Thanks.” You give her a smile, but it’s not one that she returns. “I’ll be back in just a minute, I promise.”

Though, you probably should have crossed your fingers somewhere, because you already know that it won’t be a short conversation. Once again, the both of you know it, but you leave it there, and take a bigger sip of your whiskey than you really should before you leave Leilah at the bar. 

The alcohol burns harshly in your throat as you swallow it down, and it sits rather uncomfortably in your stomach as you dodge through bodies of patrons, across the room and to where he’s sitting. Bernie doesn’t even notice that you’re there until you slide into the other side of the booth, and he looks up at you with hazy eyes. You notice, then, that his hair is trimmed shorter now.

Neither of you greet each other. Tension sits between the two of you until you break it.

“I didn’t think you’d be back in town so soon,” you say, neutrally. It wasn’t entirely a lie--word was that he and the rest of Elton’s entourage were somewhere in the northern part of the States, not in California--but it was clearly an attempt at dodging the proverbial elephant sitting between you both.

“Yeah, Elton’s, uh-” He waves his hand, like he might in conversation, but it sends little drips of liquid spilling across the table. The both of you look at it, but Bernie continues before you can comment on it. “Troubadour. Weston called him in.”

You give a little motion of your eyebrows, before looking down at the table. “...you’re drunk again.”

He opens his mouth, like he’s going to deny it, or come up with some sort of excuse. You’re ready for it, ready to weather it and then call a taxi for him while he fervently argues that  _ no,  _ he doesn’t have a problem and  _ no,  _ he doesn’t need your help or pity. But this time, he shocks you--he stops, and sighs. “Yeah.”

You blink in surprise, but it was progress made without yelling and shouting, and you don’t want to risk him shutting up.

“Somethin’ happen?” you prompt, as gentle as you can. In moments like these, he could be as skittish as a deer.

Bernie laughs, a wry sort of thing, and pulls his glass up to swallow down more of it. “Elton’s tried to kill himself.”

Your mouth drops open.  _ Kill himself?  _ But he was just in Dodger Stadium the other day, singing his heart out in front of thousands and putting on a  _ damn  _ good show. It’s hard to believe, but why would Bernie lie about this? He looks haggard, run down, and the redness of his eyes is only easier to see now. He looks like he’s grieving.

“...Jesus,” is all you can say. You slump back against the back of the booth, blinking like it would somehow make everything make more sense. “Shit.”

You can’t think of anything more to say. What could you even say?  _ I’m sorry? I didn’t know? At least he survived?  _ You knew Bernie and Elton were two halves of a whole, and you can’t even imagine what he’s feeling or thinking. You do know, however, that that is certainly a valid reason to want to drink, and so the both of you do. 

He sets his now empty glass down on the table, and you cradle yours closer to your chest.

“I didn’t hear anythin’ about it,” you offer up.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t,” Bernie snorts. “Reid’s gone and covered the whole bloody thing up, of course.”

There’s a sort of aggression that springs up in his voice when he says that, and it has your eyebrows raising. You’re assuming he means John Reid, of course, who’s Elton’s manager if you’re remembering correctly. You feel like something had happened there, at some point, but you know it’s probably not a good tangent to lead him on if he’s already this irritated just at the mention of it.

“Is he okay?”

He hesitates at that. It’s a heavy silence that stretches for a few seconds, before he breaks it. “He’s… alive. That’s about it, he’s- he’s balls deep in whatever drugs he can get his hands on even after-”

Bernie swallows, closes his eyes, and you resist the urge to reach across the table to take up his hands. 

“Sounds like someone I know,” you comment, instead.

“Not now.” His voice is low, quiet, and there’s something vulnerable there. You don’t push it. 

“Are you okay?”

He doesn’t get the chance to answer, because one of the waiters comes by, then. The other man sets down two shots, and you have to suck in a breath to keep yourself silent as the waiter steps away, and Bernie’s hand reaches for one of them. You look away when he throws it back, and find some girl in a shiny dress on the dance floor to fix your eyes on instead.

The shots, in a way, are answer enough.

“Lemme call you a cab.” You’re still looking at her shimmering silver sequins. “Please."

You can’t make him stop drinking--God, did you know that--but you could try to get him home, or to whatever hotel he’s staying in. At least there, he’d be safe, and you wouldn’t have to worry about him. 

“Hotel’s just around th’ corner,” Bernie mutters. It gives you some hope that he’s at least working with you, now.

“Then I’ll walk you.” You look back at him, finally, to see that half of the second shot is gone. His head is leaned back, and his eyes are still closed. He gives a minute little nod, and you’re both grateful for it, and yet resigned once more. 

You don’t linger on it. You stand up, instead, and reach a hand down to Bernie. It’s a few seconds before he takes it, and you pull him up to his feet only to have to scramble to catch his waist as he sways dangerously. It’s with no small amount of effort that you bite down a comment, and sling his arm over your shoulders to take up most of his weight on yourself.

The scent of his cologne reaches you, and for a brief moment, it makes you homesick for the days when things weren’t so terse between you. You had never stopped loving him, you knew. It was always there, that affection for him--just buried deep down under months of being at each other’s throats over his addiction. It’s harder to push back now, but you do so anyways, long enough to get him out of the bar and into fresh air.

You can feel Leilah’s disapproving eyes at your back as you both leave.

The both of you are silent as you half carry him past the crowd of people still lingering outside the bar, but the clumsy placement of his feet has you sighing in irritation within only a few minutes.

You stop, and instead take a step forward to kneel down on the ground. “Climb on,” you tell him.

“I can walk!” Bernie protests.

You glance back at him over your shoulder, frowning. “You can’t. C’mon, don’t be like this, Bernie. Let’s just get you home.”

He’s still hesitating. You know he’s somewhat of a prideful guy, deep down, and even if he weren’t, you knew any grown man would be reluctant to take a piggyback ride from someone else. But he can barely walk, and he can’t keep himself upright even now.

“Please,” you plead with him. “I won’t ask you to do anythin’ else.”

It hurts you a bit that that’s what it takes to convince him, but at least he gives in. Bernie’s hands are unsteady on your shoulders, and in contrast, your hands are firm when you grab his legs, steadying him as you stand up straight again. His arms wind up around your neck, then, and the feeling of his body against yours has you swallowing down another barrage of memories.

_ You broke up for a reason,  _ you tell yourself, as you start walking again. You can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your back, and the drag of his leather jacket against your shirt. It’s all so familiar and comforting that it’s sickening.

“...left the tour,” he murmurs into your hair. There’s something defeated and withdrawn in his tone. “Goin’ back home.”

Back to Europe, then. You feel disappointed, for some reason. “Yeah?”

“‘m going sober.”

You almost stop walking with how shocked you are. You’d tried to convince him to kick alcohol for years, with no success and nothing to show for it but a break up and a broken heart, so to hear him say it out loud...you don’t even know how to feel. You don’t know what to say. It feels too good to be true.

You don’t say anything at first, and neither does he, but something in the tension between the two of you seems to lessen.

“I’m proud of you,” you tell him, and you mean it.

He nods a bit, and it’s a long minute before he speaks again. “I feel like I’m- like I’m abandoning him.”

“Elton?” you ask, and at his nod, you sigh. “Well, take it from me--he won’t accept help ‘til he thinks he needs it.”

Bernie breathes out a little chuckle, shifting in your hold. You can see the hotel’s lights from here. “He blew me off, when I asked him to come with.”

“He ain’t there yet, then.” You don’t know much about Elton’s addictions, not any more than what you’d seen with your own eyes, but you know Bernie’s, and you know vaguely how the process works. In theory, it makes sense. In practice, you’ve never been able to watch it happen. The break up is testament enough to that. “He’ll get there one day.”

“What if he doesn’t?” 

There’s a lot of rawness in that. You know more than anyone how much Bernie loves Elton. They’re brothers and more, so closely entwined that on some level, it’s hard to imagine that Elton really denied the opportunity to come with Bernie. But if he’s taught you anything, it’s that pride is a tricky thing, and addictions can have subtle strangleholds on their victims. You’ve certainly learned that the hard way.

“Then he won’t,” you say, gently, even though you know it’s not what he wants to hear. “It’s gonna have to be his choice. Y’can’t make him, Bernie.” He doesn’t say anything, and you don’t try to make him. You can guess what he’s likely still hung up on. “You can’t help him if you’re already strugglin’. He’ll drag the both of y’all down.”

“Don’t say it like that.” There’s something like a scowl in his voice.

“It’s true. You’re both danglin’ off the edge here, and if you try to pull him up, too, you’ll both fall.”

It’s Leilah’s own words that you’re parroting back at him, and you know that it’ll be just as hard for him to hear as it was for you. As you expected, he doesn’t give you an answer to that. The rest of the walk up to the hotel is quiet, save for his murmured directions to his room, and when you ask for the key.

Thankfully, it looks like Bernie’s alone in the hotel room, so you can focus on getting him safely down to the bed. You kneel down a bit by the bedframe, enough for him to flop down on the sheets. When you straighten back up, you can see that he’s already half asleep, eyes closed and body lax against the mattress. You roll your eyes, but at least you know how to do this next bit.

You manage to wrangle his boots off, and even his jacket before he’s already wriggling his way into the sheets. It’s a bit of a battle to get his pants off, and you give up after that--if he wants to sleep in his boxers and that shirt he’s got on, then that’s fine with you.

You drop his jeans onto the floor, and that’s that. You’re gearing up to head back to the bar, bracing yourself for the lecture you’re going to get from Leilah, when a hand grabs your wrist. It’s loose, and you follow it up to Bernie, who’s already half asleep but blinking away sleep to look up at you.

You know what he’s going to say even before he says it.

“Stay?”

_ No,  _ is what you should say,  _ I’ve got to get back.  _ You know what Leilah would want you to say-- _ fuck you, I’m not playing spectator to your alcoholic breakdown.  _ You know what you should do, and say, and tell him. The answers are all at the tip of your tongue. 

But you don’t say any of them.

Instead, on something like autopilot, you find yourself pulling your shoes off, laying them somewhere on the floor. Your jacket follows, as does your wallet, and whatever else you’ve got shoved into your pockets. Bernie lifts up the blankets for you to crawl in, and you do, and scratchy, cheap sheets fall over you as you get yourself comfortable. 

You let yourself have a moment of weakness, as his arms circle around your waist, holding you close as you lead his head to lean against your chest. His hair is soft and familiar beneath your fingertips as you run your hands through it.

He falls asleep first, of course. You know it by the softness of his breath as it ghosts across your skin, and by the loosening of his hold around you. He feels so  _ right  _ in your arms that it aches, makes your chest feel hollow with the months old hurt that wells up. 

You have him for a night, just the one. When you fall asleep, it’s reluctantly, knowing that you might wake up with him still there-

-or maybe, he won’t be.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and criticisms are super appreciated!


End file.
